The room was quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that soothed the mind or allowed the body to rest, but a thick, suffocating silence that seemed to press down on everything within the space. It was the kind of silence that followed frustration.
The walls of the newly formed rift room shimmered faintly with unstable energy, their structure not yet fully settled, as though the space itself still remembered the violent forces that had passed through it not too long ago. The scent of burnt magic and dried blood lingered faintly, mixing into something sharp and unpleasant.
Zakar sat at the edge of one of the beds, his posture slightly hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees as his fingers loosely interlocked. His breathing was steady now, controlled, but his body told a different story.
